


Soup

by starsandgraces



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is a doctor, not a good patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soup

**Author's Note:**

> As requested by [darkaire](http://darkaire.livejournal.com/). Beta'd by [withthepilot](http://withthepilot.livejournal.com/). Makusian flu is borrowed from the wonderful [village!verse](http://chaletian.livejournal.com/tag/village!verse) by [chaletian](http://chaletian.livejournal.com/).

McCoy could kill the idiot who came back from shore leave with a strain of Makusian flu just mutated enough for the standard vaccination to have no effect, and consequently infected another sixty percent of the crew. He has no proof that Jim is patient zero, of course, but he has his suspicions. Thankfully, in spite of the name, Makusian flu more closely resembles a particularly unpleasant Terran cold than anything else (excluding the part where some people's toenails fall off, of course, but that's very rare), and everyone suffering from it has recovered after two or three days of bed rest and fluids.

He's just let himself think that the worst of the cases are over when he comes down with it himself. When he comes in for his shift, Nurse Chapel takes one look at him and then orders him back to his quarters. "You aren't any good to any of us like this," she says with a severe look. "We can manage without you, whether you believe that or not."

"I'm a doctor, not an egotist," he tries to tell her, but a deep, racking cough shakes his body before he can finish getting the sentence out. Chapel sighs and points at the door. McCoy knows when he's lost, but that doesn't stop him from pocketing a hypospray filled with a mild sedative on his way out. He knows he won't be able to sleep with his throat feeling like sandpaper.

A few hours later, dozing under his sheets, McCoy hears his door chime. There are several possibilities as to who is on the other side. He hopes it isn't Jim, a hope which is realised when, after a long pause, the door chimes again. Jim would have run out of patience and (mis)used his override code by now. McCoy sits up and calls out as best as he can, "I'm coming."

His legs are shakier than he remembered them being before his nap and he has to lean against the wall once, but he gets to the door without the person on the other side ringing again, which is another clue to his visitor's identity.

The door slides open. It's Chekov, holding a steaming cup of something, which he holds up when he sees McCoy. "Hello," he says with a dazzling smile. "Nurse Chapel found me on my lunch and she said you have the sickness. So I have brought soup. Keptin Kirk says it is traditional to drink when you are unwell."

It figures that Chapel would have seen through them despite the care they've taken to hide their relationship, and he's a little bit grateful for it. "I'm not ill, goddammit!" McCoy hisses, before proving himself a liar by sneezing violently several times in a row. Which is even more painful for his abused throat—not that he's going to admit to that.

"You are a terrible patient," Chekov tells him, stepping through the door and steering McCoy back to the bed with one arm, gently pushing him down onto the mattress. He doesn't sound at all put out about it; if anything, he sounds _happy_. McCoy opens his mouth to argue again, but Chekov is faster and he presses his fingers over McCoy's lips, stopping him. "Shhh. You'll make your throat worse."

"I hate everything," he mutters croakily against Chekov's hand. Chekov makes a sympathetic noise and pulls the sheets up to McCoy's chest, tucking him in and blowing on the soup to cool it down before he holds it up to McCoy's lips. For a moment, he considers telling Chekov how unhygienic that is, but the expression on his face brooks no disagreement.

"Today is the worst day," he promises. "Tomorrow you'll wake up and feel left as rain."

McCoy stares at him for a moment before he starts to laugh, which sets him off into a coughing fit. Chekov rubs his chest soothingly, looking innocent. "Dammit, kid," McCoy says eventually. "You know perfectly well what that expression really is. No one thinks you're cute."

"I think you do." Chekov kisses the corner of his mouth lightly, then sits up, putting the soup down on the nightstand. "But, I can always go. I have a very important fencing lesson with Lieutenant Sulu; I can't cancel it for someone who isn't ill."

McCoy grits his teeth. "Sometimes you're more manipulative than Jim, you know that?" Chekov looks down at him impassively until McCoy sighs. "Okay, don't go."

"And?"

"And I think you're fucking cute," he grumbles, "and don't think I'm ever saying that again." Apparently that's good enough for Chekov, because his face lights up and he curls against McCoy's side immediately, stroking his hair off his forehead gently and pressing the back of his hand to the flushed skin to check his temperature. It's utterly archaic and imprecise and it makes McCoy want to kiss him.

"Later or tomorrow, we will get you showered," he says, dropping his hand from McCoy's head to pick up the soup again. "But for now I would like to see you drink your soup and go to sleep, okay? That's reasonable?"

He wants to tell Chekov where he can stick his goddamn patronising suggestions, but as he knows Chekov is just trying to look after him and they mostly line up with what he feels capable of doing anyway, McCoy just nods and takes the cup from him.

He can still feed himself, dammit.


End file.
